Cryo
by Tom Greenwood
Genre: Fantasy/Sci-Fi
Swearwords: None.
Description: Proof that cryogenic freezing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
_____________________________________________________________________
He had no idea of the passage of time. That was the problem when you were cryo, you could have been frozen for ten minutes, ten years, ten millennia or even longer. He knew the last eight times he had been woken up were not that long apart, perhaps tens of years at the most. All he knew was that he was waking up again.
Would it be his son, his son who had betrayed him, replaced him, frozen him, woken him six times to taunt him and then on the seventh to ask his advice? Or would it be the two people who had woken him up the last time and claimed that his son was dead? Then they had just put him back into cryo, no arguments, only a statement that they would wake him up in a few years.
Perhaps claiming to be the legal owner of the S11 area of the Sphere was a mistake.
He felt the cryo-coffin change from its horizontal position to vertical, and heat return to his cold bones. The face-partition opened, and he looked out into darkness. There was nothing, no light and no sound, then after what could only have been five minutes there was the faint sound of something moving and then some distant clicks and whistles.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Show yourself.”
He was blinded by a bright yellow light. When he managed to open his eyes again, he saw something move out the corner of his eye. It was blurred and it was green.
His eyes grew used to the light and the whistles and clicks grew louder and from the right came a large green creature with a single eye on top of a stalk. It was dressed in a blue overall. The eye stared at him and then the creature clicked and whistled through a large mouth where its stomach should be.
He closed his eyes and screamed.
He opened them again to see the creature staring at him. It was standing about two metres away. Calm, stay calm, there was no reason to assume the alien was dangerous. But then there was no reason to assume that it was friendly either.
The alien looked down at a small device. It was fiddling with it in its two hands or tentacles or whatever they were. Then a second alien walked or slid or whatever beside the first and started whistling, bleeping and clicking. The first one started to reply and then, if he didn’t know better, the two seemed to be having an argument. Eventually the first one handed or tentacled the device to the second one and walked off, almost as if in a huff. The second alien continued to fiddle with the device. Eventually it seemed satisfied, whistled, and then a voice said in ancient English. “Can you understand me?”
“Yes,” he replied unsurely.
There was a single whistle in reply. Then some more clicks and whistles.
“Are you one of the builders of the Sphere?” the voice asked.
Best answer truthfully, “My ancestors were. What has happened?”
“The Xanwiths found the Sphere drifting between galaxies surrounding a dying star. It was too valuable to allow them to have it, so we declared a holy war. It is the most marvellous ancient construct we have ever found that was possibly built by the ancient race only known as the ancients. Though we cannot be sure it was them as all signs of the builders had been erased by time until we found you.”
“How long?”
“So you are an ancient?”
He would have shrugged his shoulders if he were able to. “I suppose I might be.”
The alien then started to have a heated, annoyingly untranslated debate with what he could only assume was the other one which remained out of sight.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“There is nothing wrong,” it replied. He knew when he was being lied to, even by a one-eyed, green alien.
“How long have I been in cryo?” he asked again.
“We think about 50 thousand million zaltons.”
That sounded a long time, “How long is a zalton?”
“Twenty-eight sarons.”
Well that was a great help.
“Are any other of the cryo-caskets occupied?” he asked.
“No they are all broken, yours was the only one still functioning. In fact it is the only piece of equipment we have found that is still functioning on the millions and millions of zandons of the sphere.”
The eye blinked.
“Why were you in the suspended animation machine,” the alien asked. “We have found remains of them in other places but never one occupied.”
“I was placed here by my son.”
“Your son? Why was that?”
It was probably best to tell only a partial truth. “He grew jealous and wanted everything I had.” He stopped. Best change the subject, declaring yourself absolute ruler and starting your own religion with yourself as a deity would probably be frowned upon by most species and therefore probably by the aliens. “How are you speaking to me? How did you learn the ancient language?”
“A universal translator. It has many unknown languages programmed into it. We guessed this one might be yours. It is an ancient device first created by the Piloths from quadrant four of the third galaxy, they were great archaeologists. Then when the Farinoiths declared war the …”
He stopped listening; he was the last human alive. He had been in cryo for millions of years and if the red dwarf star that was surrounded by the Sphere was nearing the end of its life then it was more like thousands of millions of years. Had he slept longer than the age the universe had been when he had originally been alive? He started to sweat at the implication.
His thoughts were interrupted by the alien whistling, bleeping and thumping the universal translator.
“That’s better. Bleep whistle Piloths!”
“And there are no other beings like me?” he asked.
“None at all. There are legends, legends of a mighty race that spanned the five known galaxies, a race that grew decadent and fell under the sway of a single being who declared himself lord, then his progeny grew weary of this and led a rebellion and then declared himself lord. Lord of all creation. This led to a war, a mighty war that all but destroyed the ancients. But then these are just legends, legends of the evil race of ancients, used to scare children when they won’t behave.”
Well that sounded a bit like people. Parts of it almost reflected his own life.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“We don’t know. There is only you. So not enough of you to keep as a subject race. We may trade you to the Jajains, they like to experiment and copy your genetic material or we may keep you alive but the resource wars mean you are not important except as a …”
The alien was interrupted by a sound.
The sound of laughter.
The sound of human laughter.
Then a vaguely familiar voice said, “Sorry I couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. Twenty-eight sarons, I nearly lost it then – ha ha ha.”
Then someone else started laughing and the alien just disappeared in a flash of holographic light.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Proof that cryogenic freezing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
_____________________________________________________________________
He had no idea of the passage of time. That was the problem when you were cryo, you could have been frozen for ten minutes, ten years, ten millennia or even longer. He knew the last eight times he had been woken up were not that long apart, perhaps tens of years at the most. All he knew was that he was waking up again.
Would it be his son, his son who had betrayed him, replaced him, frozen him, woken him six times to taunt him and then on the seventh to ask his advice? Or would it be the two people who had woken him up the last time and claimed that his son was dead? Then they had just put him back into cryo, no arguments, only a statement that they would wake him up in a few years.
Perhaps claiming to be the legal owner of the S11 area of the Sphere was a mistake.
He felt the cryo-coffin change from its horizontal position to vertical, and heat return to his cold bones. The face-partition opened, and he looked out into darkness. There was nothing, no light and no sound, then after what could only have been five minutes there was the faint sound of something moving and then some distant clicks and whistles.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Show yourself.”
He was blinded by a bright yellow light. When he managed to open his eyes again, he saw something move out the corner of his eye. It was blurred and it was green.
His eyes grew used to the light and the whistles and clicks grew louder and from the right came a large green creature with a single eye on top of a stalk. It was dressed in a blue overall. The eye stared at him and then the creature clicked and whistled through a large mouth where its stomach should be.
He closed his eyes and screamed.
He opened them again to see the creature staring at him. It was standing about two metres away. Calm, stay calm, there was no reason to assume the alien was dangerous. But then there was no reason to assume that it was friendly either.
The alien looked down at a small device. It was fiddling with it in its two hands or tentacles or whatever they were. Then a second alien walked or slid or whatever beside the first and started whistling, bleeping and clicking. The first one started to reply and then, if he didn’t know better, the two seemed to be having an argument. Eventually the first one handed or tentacled the device to the second one and walked off, almost as if in a huff. The second alien continued to fiddle with the device. Eventually it seemed satisfied, whistled, and then a voice said in ancient English. “Can you understand me?”
“Yes,” he replied unsurely.
There was a single whistle in reply. Then some more clicks and whistles.
“Are you one of the builders of the Sphere?” the voice asked.
Best answer truthfully, “My ancestors were. What has happened?”
“The Xanwiths found the Sphere drifting between galaxies surrounding a dying star. It was too valuable to allow them to have it, so we declared a holy war. It is the most marvellous ancient construct we have ever found that was possibly built by the ancient race only known as the ancients. Though we cannot be sure it was them as all signs of the builders had been erased by time until we found you.”
“How long?”
“So you are an ancient?”
He would have shrugged his shoulders if he were able to. “I suppose I might be.”
The alien then started to have a heated, annoyingly untranslated debate with what he could only assume was the other one which remained out of sight.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“There is nothing wrong,” it replied. He knew when he was being lied to, even by a one-eyed, green alien.
“How long have I been in cryo?” he asked again.
“We think about 50 thousand million zaltons.”
That sounded a long time, “How long is a zalton?”
“Twenty-eight sarons.”
Well that was a great help.
“Are any other of the cryo-caskets occupied?” he asked.
“No they are all broken, yours was the only one still functioning. In fact it is the only piece of equipment we have found that is still functioning on the millions and millions of zandons of the sphere.”
The eye blinked.
“Why were you in the suspended animation machine,” the alien asked. “We have found remains of them in other places but never one occupied.”
“I was placed here by my son.”
“Your son? Why was that?”
It was probably best to tell only a partial truth. “He grew jealous and wanted everything I had.” He stopped. Best change the subject, declaring yourself absolute ruler and starting your own religion with yourself as a deity would probably be frowned upon by most species and therefore probably by the aliens. “How are you speaking to me? How did you learn the ancient language?”
“A universal translator. It has many unknown languages programmed into it. We guessed this one might be yours. It is an ancient device first created by the Piloths from quadrant four of the third galaxy, they were great archaeologists. Then when the Farinoiths declared war the …”
He stopped listening; he was the last human alive. He had been in cryo for millions of years and if the red dwarf star that was surrounded by the Sphere was nearing the end of its life then it was more like thousands of millions of years. Had he slept longer than the age the universe had been when he had originally been alive? He started to sweat at the implication.
His thoughts were interrupted by the alien whistling, bleeping and thumping the universal translator.
“That’s better. Bleep whistle Piloths!”
“And there are no other beings like me?” he asked.
“None at all. There are legends, legends of a mighty race that spanned the five known galaxies, a race that grew decadent and fell under the sway of a single being who declared himself lord, then his progeny grew weary of this and led a rebellion and then declared himself lord. Lord of all creation. This led to a war, a mighty war that all but destroyed the ancients. But then these are just legends, legends of the evil race of ancients, used to scare children when they won’t behave.”
Well that sounded a bit like people. Parts of it almost reflected his own life.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“We don’t know. There is only you. So not enough of you to keep as a subject race. We may trade you to the Jajains, they like to experiment and copy your genetic material or we may keep you alive but the resource wars mean you are not important except as a …”
The alien was interrupted by a sound.
The sound of laughter.
The sound of human laughter.
Then a vaguely familiar voice said, “Sorry I couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. Twenty-eight sarons, I nearly lost it then – ha ha ha.”
Then someone else started laughing and the alien just disappeared in a flash of holographic light.
About the Author
Tom Greenwood was born in Bishopbriggs and now lives in Edinburgh with his wife, two daughters and a rabbit. You can read more of his off-the-wall short stories here on McStorytellers or you can go to Smashwords and download his two free collections, Short Bedtime Stories and Several Short Stories.